When a lie is really The Truth
by darth spots and darth stripes
Summary: Lily Evans tells a little lie, and it backfires on her big time. Now she’s pretending she’s a caterpillar in a cocoon, hiding in pillows and doing other acts of the insane nature. It's James Potter to the rescue, of course. oneshot


Author's Notes: Procrastination is a sensational thing; no matter if you have a mountain high stack of things to do or barely

_**Author's Notes: Procrastination is a sensational thing; no matter if you have a mountain high stack of things to do or barely anything at all; if you are incredibly stressed or completely relaxed: you can**_** always** _**procrastinate. There are millions of ways to procrastinate, and here is one of my methods. I have written (yet another) James/Lily Oneshot. Call me cliché, but I do love it, and these characters are easy to work with.**_

_**I babble too much. So now I will shut up and give you the particulars:**_

Summary: Lily Evans tells a little lie, and it backfires on her big time. Now she's pretending she's a caterpillar in a cocoon, hiding in pillows and doing other acts of the insane nature. All the work of our wonderful Mr James Potter, who will inevitably notice her disturbing behaviour and seek the meaning behind it.

_**Enjoy.**_

When a lie is really The Truth

She'd only done it because he'd said he'd stop stalking her.

He'd said, with an air of challenge and arrogance, "Okay Evans, I'll stop – what did you call it… oh yes – _pining_ after you if you admit you like me."

He'd looked triumphant; she'd weighed up the pros and cons – always sensible – and decided to lie. A small lie and piece of her dignity would be worth the lack of pining.

"Alright then," she said slightly frustrated, "_Fine. _I like you."

Of course, this he hadn't expected; he promptly fainted, eyes wide with disbelief and joy.

And from that moment onwards she had been doomed.

Utterly, completely doomed.

When she slept, it was him; when she bushed her teeth, it was him; when she sipped her pumpkin juice, it was him; when she opened her Transfiguration textbook, it was him; when she looked out the window in History of Magic, it was him; when she – for Merlin's sake – waded through sludge-like creatures to 'experience their true beauty' in Care of Magical Creatures, it was him.

The point being – It. Was. _Him._

The moment she realised this she knew she'd hit rock bottom.

Her only chance of survival: avoidance.

Operation Avoid James Potter was underway.

When she saw him at the library, she dove under her desk; when she went to class, she arrived late and left with the speed of light – ignoring as much of the world as she could; she skipped meals, or went at impossible times and generally speaking, resembled a caterpillar desperately trying to cocoon herself and rid the feelings she could not face.

Her luck rand out, however, late one night in the Common Room where she had come to read, since she'd been missing the degree of comfortability only the scarlet chairs could provide.

At a quarter past one in the morning, during the exact sentence where Mr Darcy re-proposes to Elizabeth Bennet, she heard the portrait whole open.

In a moment of panic, she buried herself in the pillows, hoping against all odds that: one, it was _not_ James Potter and two, her pillow disguise would suffice.

She heard soft voices, quiet steps, and then her stomach rumbled – she should've had dinner.

The voices and footsteps stopped.

"Prongs, did you hear that?"

The moment that followed was impossibly long.

"No, Padfoot, you're insane."

"Oh. Right, then."

A pair of feet started up the stairs, and then stopped.

"Prongs, are you coming?"

"Um… no. I'd rather like to sit by the fire for a moment – but you go ahead. I might just stay here alone."

"'Kay. Night then."

And the footsteps resumed again, and faded into the distance.

She held her breath: it didn't seem like he'd noticed where she was.

And then the steps, painfully slow, headed towards her. They stopped right in front of her pillow-disguise.

"You know, I do wonder why you think I'm so stupid," he said. He picked up the pillow where her face was hidden.

"I don't think you're stupid," she squeaked lamely.

"Uh huh," he was sceptical, "and the pillows…?"

She gulped. And sat up.

"Well there's no throw rugs."

"Ah, I see," his eyes amused as he joined her on the couch, "Well a throw rug would have been that much better."

She laughed awkwardly; she didn't know how to act around him if it wasn't defensive or frustrated or pissed off.

"So then," he turned to meet her eyes, making her feel weirder again, "would you like to explain why, exactly, you were hiding so wonderfully in your pillows?"

"It fooled Sirius," she protested.

"Not exactly your hardest to fool," he countered.

"Touché."

"You avoided the question," he reminded her.

"Oh. Yeah. Well um, you know. Just didn't want …" she found interest, or security, in the tassel of one of the cushions.

"Didn't want…?" he moved his head, once again recapturing her gaze.

She sighed, not wanting so say what she was thinking.

"Just didn't want company," she looked away, expecting him to be offended.

"Ah, I see. Well that explains _everything. _I mean, when I don't want company, pillows are always my weapon of choice."

Apparently, years of rejection had built up his resilience to her offence.

"It _does _explain everything," she argued, the frustration rising and comforting her: this was how she could talk to him.

"It does _not_," he smirked, "Clearly you _desperately _didn't want company, otherwise why would you have stooped to pillows?"

"Well, so what if I _do_ 'desperately' not want company?"

"I'm just saying, if you're desperate to be alone, there's gotta be a reason."

She was stumped, and therefore she huffed.

"Can I make a guess?"

"Does it matter what my answer is?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he beamed victoriously; she rolled her eyes. "I think it's about what happened the other day."

She spun her head around to look at him.

"What… what happened?" she dared.

"You know, you said you liked me…"

She knew this was going to happen.

"Yeah, about that…"

He interrupted, "And the only logical deduction I can make is that you _actually _like me, and have therefore been trying to avoid me in the hopes that you can suppress your feelings."

"You know, you're not supposed to actually say those things," she dodged the bullet.

"Hit to close to home?" he taunted, perhaps a little too cruelly.

She ripped her eyes from the floor and glared at him.

"Yes it damn well did, and I'm not going to have you go around revealing my feelings! I've had to live like a caterpillar and you go and point out my actions and what they mean and _can't you see I'm in denial here?!_"

Her rant left her gasping for air, and each of them staring at each other, their faces a little too close for her liking.

"Why don't you become a butterfly?" he hardly whispered.

She couldn't help it; she laughed her head off.

His eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What?" his voice was an octave above what it should have been.

This only added to her amusement, and she continued her cackling.

He resolved in his mind to take an action that would certainly end her incessant laughter, and kissed her full on the lips.

She was paralysed and completely shocked by his move, she hardly noticed when she closed her eyes, her heart completely melted.

They pulled apart and looked at each other.

"So, Miss Evans, does this mean you'll be _pining_ after me?"

"Butterflies don't _pine_," she sniffed.

He pulled her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head.

"Doesn't matter, I don't need pining."

He swiftly kissed her hair.

She smiled at the sweet gesture, and the irony: telling a lie that was actually the truth had led her here.

She closed her eyes, wove her fingers through his and fell asleep, not caring who would see them when they woke.

_**The end.**_


End file.
